Seven years
by PaleMagnolia
Summary: Edith Pelham, now Marchioness of Hexham, is back at Downton Abbey to attend the royal visit with her husband and child. But while she's here, there is something she needs to do - something she should have done years ago.
1. Chapter 1

Seven years.

It took Edith Pelham, nèe Crawley, seven years to muster up enough confidence to do it, but she was finally ready. She knew it the very moment she turned the car on, and when she started building up speed at the wheel of her husband's open Bentley, she felt surprisingly serene, at peace with herself and the world. She had always loved driving motors, ever since Tom (well, it was _Branson_, back then – how much things had changed since then!) had taught her; she liked the exhilarating feeling of being in control of a powerful machine, the independence it gave her, the confidence she felt on the driver's seat. Back in her youth, whenever she felt restless, or the atmosphere at home got uncomfortable (usually because of Mary being – well, _Mary_), she just went for a drive by herself, for the sheer enjoyment of it, and she let the crisp Yorkshire air clear her head. Behind the wheel, she was not the lackluster middle child, but the skilled pilot, the speed fiend; and when she got back from one of those joyrides, she was usually in a state of grace that allowed her to endure having dinner with her family – sharp remarks from Granny, Mary's disdain and all – with a smile on her face.

Even now that she was a grown woman - with a husband, a child and a grand title - and cars had long stopped representing her escape hatch, driving had lost nothing of its charm to her: she still loved it, loved the way it made her feel.

Now, as she went down along the road, she enjoyed the warmth of the morning sun over her head, the breeze ruffling her hair under her hat, and she smiled as heather moorlands, green pastures and dry-stone walls unrolled before her eyes. She knew that landscape like the back of her hand, and she loved it now more than ever.

Now, she liked Northumberland; it was her new home, and she had learnt to appreciate its unspoilt wilderness, its high, bare moors, the jagged outlines of its sandstone ridges; but she sometimes found herself longing for her land with a burning, passionate intensity, yearning for its gentle rolling hills and orderly meadows, its small quiet cottages and white flocks of sheep. Now that she was back, if only for a short time, she was determined to savour every bit of Yorkshire she could get.

How many times had she passed by that very oak tree, nubby and twisted and bent by the wind? How many times had she seen the sun shining on that pond, turning it into a golden pool? The sight of these familiar landmarks made her smile again. But on that crisp, sunny morning she was not just driving for the pleasure of it, or to enjoy the scenery – she had a place to go, and a purpose.

When she finally reached her destination, she calmly parked the car, fixed her hair in the rearview mirror, retrieved her purse from the passenger's seat, and stepped out of her car on the gravel driveway. She felt a twinge of unease (who wouldn't have, in her shoes?) but she knew what she needed to do, and she knew she was now – at long last – ready to do it.

Edith looked up at the large Georgian house and frowned slightly, noticing how the red and white façade she remembered so well was starting to show signs of neglect: a hairline crack here, a leaking drainpipe there, a thin layer of moss on the windowsills facing north. She looked around: the grass on the lawn was a bit overgrown and there were no flowers in the flowerbeds: was the house abandoned? Shading her eyes from the sun with a hand, she looked up and saw smoke coming out of the chimneys: no, there was someone there. She took a long, slow breath and rang the bell. The deep, low sound of the bell reverberating inside the building triggered an unexpected burst of memories from her past – of herself standing there, young and jittery and a bit too eager to please, in a pink dress that (she knew that now) didn't suit her at all, clutching the handle of her purse with shaky, nervous hands.

After what felt like an eternity, a frail-looking, elderly man with tousled white hair opened the door, with painful slowness. He looked at Edith, narrowing his bleary, pink eyes in polite confusion. "Yes?" he said, in a thin, shaky voice. " How may I help you?"

He had a visible grease stain on the collar of his jacket and his hands were dreadfully deformed by arthritis: Edith nearly failed to recognize in that hunchbacked, shabby old man the once impeccable butler of the house. Her throat tightened up; in her mind, up until that moment, everything had stayed exactly the same as the last time she had seen it, in 1920. But, of course, she had changed in those seven years, and everyone else had changed, too. She realised now, with a pang, just _how long_ it had been.

"Good morning, Stewart" she said eventually, and she managed to keep her voice calm and steady. "Is Sir Anthony home?"


	2. Chapter 2

Poor, old Stewart had led Edith, in painstakingly slow steps, to a small sitting room, and had left her there for what felt like an hour.

He had done his best to be gracious and hospitable, but his watery eyes kept blinking in astonishment, as if he couldn't quite believe she was really there. He had called her "Lady Edith" twice by mistake, immediately apologizing. "I mean Lady Hexham, of course" he said, sheepishly. "I'll see if the master is in the house, M'lady" he had said before disappearing. Of course, they were both fully aware Sir Anthony was there: Stewart would have told her right away if he hadn't been. But in pretending he didn't know his master's whereabouts, the loyal old servant was providing him with an excuse in case he wasn't willing to receive the unexpected guest.

Edith couldn't really blame him for his little lie.

While she was waiting for someone to appear, Edith took a look around the room: it was a small boudoir, with heavy curtains and matching draperies in a pattern that had been in fashion at least two decades before. The fireplace was empty and cold, and the entire room, though tidy, had a dusty, abandoned feel to it; the whole mansion, it seemed to her, was unnaturally quiet and cold, like a ghost house or a museum. She got up and started looking around; the room was furnished with a sofa, chairs, and a small writing-desk. She went to the desk and picked up a leather address book with the letters _M.S._ in gold on the cover. _Maud Strallan,_ she thought. The whole place was frozen in time.

_Someone should bring this house in the twentieth century_, Edith thought absent-mindedly. And then she remembered: _she_ was the one who was supposed to refurbish the house… as the new Lady Strallan. She put the book back where it was and sat back on the sofa. At that very moment, the door opened and a tall figure appeared in the doorway.

Up until that second, Edith had been sure she was ready to see him. As it turned out, she wasn't. When Sir Anthony came in through the door, a wave of emotions - warmth, agitation, confusion, tenderness, heartache - shot through her body like a jolt of electricity; she stood up and looked at him, struggling to keep her expression calm and collected while her heart thumped wildly against her ribcage like a trapped bird.

_Oh, God_, she though, bewildered and distressed. _He's an old man!_

Anthony had aged a great deal in those seven years, and he had not aged well; his hair was mostly grey, now, and his shoulders were curved in a way that made him look shorter than Edith remembered. He wore an old, out-of-date tweed suit that looked way too large for him. He had always been an elegant man, a stately man, imposing even - always formal, always dressed to the nines; a man who walked with a purpose and kept himself as straight as a string. Now he looked scruffy and drab, devoid of any energy.

The two of them stood there staring at each other, studying each other, unsure what to say and how to say it. How was he to address her – as the Marchioness of Hexham or the woman he was once on the verge of marrying? And how was she to answer – as the grand lady or the shy young woman she had once been?

Several seconds went by. There was an unnatural stiffness in Sir Anthony's bearing, an expression both intense and wary in his eyes. He had the look of a man who had received a mysterious, unnamed parcel in the mail, and is unsure what to expect when he opens it: will it turn out to be a gift from an old friend, or an incendiary device ready to blow up in his face? Should he unwrap it or drop it and run for cover?

"Lady Hexham" he said eventually – formal, cautious, hiding beneath the shield of etiquette. "To what do I owe the pl-"

"Please", interrupted Edith, raising a gloved hand; her voice was kind but firm. "Please, Anthony, don't." He stopped midsentence and looked at her, surprised. Her voice took on a softer tone and she managed a smile. "I come in peace. There's no need to tiptoe around me."

After a moment's hesitation, he nodded. Edith took a step closer. "I'm sure you know this is not a social call."

"Yes, I gathered that much." Unexpectedly, he smiled one of his lopsided smiles and, for a moment, Edith recognized in that tired old man the same Anthony she had known and loved. There was another uncomfortable moment of silence. "We, uhm." Anthony cleared his throat and looked around the cold, depressing room. "We better go into the library. It's – warmer, there."

Edith nodded. "All right."


	3. Chapter 3

Stepping in the library, Edith felt as if she had taken a journey through time: for a second, she could almost believe she was twenty-eight again. The morning light poured in from the large windows, giving the room a frozen, precisely detailed look; everything in there looked strikingly, painfully familiar: the tall bookcase, the little round table in the corner, the dusty green sofa with its embroidered pillows; nothing had changed - not the furniture, not the books, not the lamps, not even the heavy fringed draperies. Anthony's favourite armchair was still in the exact same place it had always been, its velvet cushion and backrest faded and worn out from use. There was a large book on the coffee table, opened on the engraving of what looked like a Byzantine painting: a dark array of saints and martyrs and sinners.

Edith looked around and had a brief, clear flash of Anthony - tall and dignified and impeccably dressed - standing in front of the bookshelf with a book in his hand, smiling at her vigorous attempts to convince him he was still in his prime. She blinked; it was hard to reconcile the Anthony of her memories with the man that was standing right in front of her – grey, stooping in ill-fitting tweeds, a tired, defeated look about him.

He gestured to her to sit on the sofa. "Please" he said, scratching his nose briefly in a sign of nervousness. "Have a seat. Would you like - _ah_ \- a cup of tea?"

Edith took place on the edge of the sofa, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. She, too, was nervous: she knew from the beginning it wouldn't be easy – but she was not prepared to the flood of emotions that overwhelmed her. The house was loaded with memories – pleasant memories, painful memories, memories of a time past. "No, thank you." She patted her hand on the sofa, inviting him to sit down with her: he silently accepted and sat next to her, stiff and self-conscious, a formal, remote air on his face. He cleared his throat twice, obviously at a loss for words, and he looked at her with an expression that was at the same time apologetic and imploring.

Suddenly, she felt the almost uncontrollable impulse to drag his head down on her shoulder, strike the graying hair and comfort him, reassure him, tell him everything was alright.

Instead she smiled thinly. "How about we skip the chit-chat and we get to the point?"

"Ah, yes." He blinked, both doubtful and relieved. "Yes, it's probably best."

There was a long moment of silence, then Edith spoke. "You see, Anthony, the reason why I'm here" she took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, looking away. "Well, the point is -" She knew what she wanted to say, but her throat was suddenly tight and she struggled to say the words. Eventually, she looked at him again: he was looking down at his own shoes, desperately uncomfortable.

"Anthony, I think you need my forgiveness." Edith reached out her hand and put it lightly on his knee. "And I need _yours_ even more."

"_My_ forgiveness?" Anthony's back stiffened even more and his head snapped up, a bewildered look on his face.

She smiled sadly. "Yes, my dear friend. I need your forgiveness. I'm not sure I'm worthy of it, but I must at least ask for it."

Anthony opened and closed his mouth twice, like a fish out of water, but he could not make a sound: he looked so completely, utterly baffled it was almost comical to see. "What would you _ever_ need my forgiveness for?" he blurted out when he finally found his voice. "For standing up for me? For giving me a chance to start over, for making me believe there was something to live for?" He lowered his eyes. "For believing I was a better man than I was?" he added in a bitter tone.

"No, dear." Edith waited until he looked up again and then smiled. "For placing an awfully heavy burden on your shoulders" she said in a sweet, doleful voice.

There was a long moment of silence. "I don't understand" Anthony stared at her. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, Anthony" she smiled again and looked at him with candid sincerity. "You know what I mean: the wedding – it was a terrible mistake on my part."

Anthony let out an almost inaudible sigh and looked down again. "Yes. Yes, it most certainly was."

"Oh, no. _No_." Edith leaned in and impulsively put her hand on his cheek. He flinched, surprised, but did not pull away. "Please, do not misunderstand what I'm trying to say. What I mean is - I've put you into an _impossible_ situation."

Anthony shifted uncomfortably in his place. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, Anthony!" She shook her head. "Let's not pretend I am blameless in everything that happened. Actually, it was as much my fault as yours."

Anthony still looked puzzled. "What are you saying?"

Edith sighed. "Let's be honest. I've pushed you, I forced your hand, I rushed you into setting a date when you so _clearly_ had reservations about the whole thing. I only realized much later how selfish I was in my impatience to be a wife. I was so eager to finally have my place in the world… Now, please don't get me wrong" she said quickly, noticing his forehead creasing slightly. "That's not, by _any_ means, the main reason I wanted to marry you. I loved you, Anthony, truly, I - I _adored_ you. You must never, _ever_ doubt that."

For the first time since they sat down, a small, bashful smile appeared on Anthony's face.

"But I was so self-centered and -" she blinked rapidly "and so _blind_ to anything except my own happiness and fulfilment and childish pride, that I didn't see how anxious and distressed you were." She sighed and drew her hand back in her lap. "Well, what's even worse is - I _did_, and I chose to ignore it; I buried my head in the sand. I knew that you had your doubts, I knew my family was giving you hell. I could have stopped it: I could have delayed the wedding, I could have given you more time, but I didn't. I was so ecstatic at the prospect of finally marrying, that I brushed off the only opinion that mattered – yours."

Now it was Anthony's turn to shake his head. "You can't blame yourself for my lack of a backbone. I had no right - "

"You had _every right_" she said heatedly, shaking her head. "I was so wrapped up in myself, and so foolish, and I -"

"Now, stop that!" Anthony sprang to his feet, and she saw an intensity in his gaze that wasn't there before. Edith fell silent at the sudden energy of his voice. "I won't hear another word!"


End file.
